For Your Viewing Pleasure
by Night Monkey
Summary: Crowley's going to have movie night, even if it kills him. And by "him," Crowley means Bobby.


While this isn't exactly a Christmas story (you'll get plenty of those from others, I promise) it is a Christmas present. Here you go, Arizo, all wrapped up in ribbons and bows. Don't be alarmed if the box is shaking. Or giggling. That's perfectly normal.

And for anyone else reading, happy holidays. May your days be merry and bright.

* * *

There was a knock on the door. Bobby put down his beer, got up off the sofa, and went to see who had the indecency to come knocking at quarter to one in the morning. If it was Garth looking for a place to stay, Garth was going to spend the night in Rumsfeld's old dog house.

It was not Garth.

Bobby slammed the door and then, heart pounding, pressed his back to the door, using his weight to keep the door closed.

Not that it would help if the man outside _really_ wanted to gain entry. Bobby could have stacked a couple of sumo wrestlers in front of the door and that wouldn't have deterred his visitor.

"I'm not the Jehovah's Witnesses," the man outside announced.

"Yeah, you're worse!" Bobby said.

"I'm deeply wounded by that remark."

"Good! I'll tell you the same thing I tell them. Get off my property before I invoke my second amendment rights!"

"Is that how you handle all your problems, with a shotgun full of rock-salt? No wonder you never get visitors."

Bobby wished fervently that he had that shotgun loaded with salt on hand. Or, barring that, at least some holy water. Too bad both of those items were at least a room away. Why, Bobby wondered, had he never had the good sense to better guard his front door? In hindsight, he should have had a bucket of holy water perpetually suspended from the ceiling, and at least one gun or silver knife mounted on the wall. As soon as this encounter was over, so long as he survived, he was beefing up his home security system.

"I like my privacy," Bobby said.

"And I like to invade it. Now behave yourself and open the door."

"No."

"Don't make me manifest in there, mister."

"Go ahead, manifest yourself right into a Devil's Trap," Bobby replied.

"Maybe I'll just pop into your bedroom, then. I doubt you've made your bed demon-proof."

"You stay the hell out of my bedroom!"

"In that case, I'll just take the couch." The voice came from behind Bobby, somewhere in the interior of the house.

"Balls," Bobby muttered. "Balls, balls, _balls_."

The hunter turned from the door and ran back into the living room. A new, uninvited ass was perched jauntily on the sofa, his custom-made shoes resting on Bobby's cluttered coffee table.

Bobby strode across the room and, despite his rational mind screaming about suicide, took hold of Crowley's lapels and hefted him from the couch. Like a man putting a bad dog outside or a bouncer escorting a rowdy drunk from the premises, Bobby pulled Crowley across the floor, the demon's legs dragging on the carpet.

Crowley endured that treatment for a few seconds before disappearing from Bobby's grip. One second the hunter's hands were full of suit, and the next he was like a mime mimicking the act of lugging something heavy.

"You might like looking like an unmade bed, but I will not have my clothing treated like that. Especially since I can't seem to keep a tailor for more than a week before I have to have chunks of him scraped out of the grout. And don't even get me started on what happened to my last dry-cleaner," Crowley said, brushing carpet fibers from his knees.

"You didn't come here to bitch about doing laundry," Bobby said, glaring at the demon, who was once again situated on the couch.

"No, I didn't. I came here—"

"To complain about my fashion sense?"

"Don't think I can't. But my real reason is to—"

"Give me back my soul?"

Crowley snorted. "Don't you wish."

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do."

"I'll bet."

Bobby, against his better judgment, made another run at the demon. This time, when he went to grab Crowley, he ended up with a handful of couch cushion. Crowley had transported himself to the other end of the couch and was smirking at Bobby.

"Sit down, Robert," Crowley ordered.

"I ain't sitting anywhere near you."

"Have it your way." With a wave of his hand, Crowley had Bobby pinned against the far wall. "Comfortable?"

Once Bobby was safely immobilized, Crowley rose from the couch and sauntered over to the TV.

"Is that…Oprah? I wouldn't show this in Hell," Crowley said.

"I wasn't— There was something better on before— Don't change my channel!" Bobby writhed and kicked the air in an attempt to free himself from the demon's hold.

Crowley shook his head and fiddled with the television. Oprah disappeared into a wall of hissing static. Crowley considered it a momentous improvement.

"I half-expected a VCR," Crowley said, "because your computer was obsolete before the new millennium. But this does make everything much easier."

Bobby stopped flailing long enough to growl, "Make _what_ easier?"

"Our new tradition: weekly movie night."

Bobby decided right then and there that he was in Hell. He must have died in his sleep, or fallen off the roof, or choked on the three-day-old casserole leftovers he'd heated up for dinner, and now, having failed to regain his soul in life, he'd been sent below. Where he would be stuck with Crowley.

Forever.

And ever.

For all eternity.

Ad infinitum.

Shit.

"You could at least pretend to like it," Crowley said, noting Bobby's suddenly ashen and sweaty pallor.

Bobby wanted to cry. If the desire became any stronger, he wouldn't be able to help himself. He didn't want to spend the rest of time trapped in Hell with a bunch of demons who probably remembered every exorcism and splash of holy water he'd ever given their mangy breed, and he sure as hell didn't want to make the experience any worse by having Crowley as his personal torturer.

"Oh, stop. You can pick the movie next week."

"Does time still work like that?" Bobby asked.

"What's that supposed to mean? Does time still work like what? Did someone announce a return to the Julian calendar since I got here?"

"I mean, down here. In Hell. Are there still weeks?" Bobby clarified.

"More or less, but you aren't in Hell. You're pasted to the wall like a squashed fly, but it's your wall on Earth. Believe me, when your debt's collected, you'll know," Crowley replied. Then, miffed, the demon added, "Are you insinuating movie night with me is your idea of eternal punishment?"

"I just couldn't think of any other reason why this would be happening to me," Bobby said.

"It couldn't just be because, I don't know, I enjoy your uncivilized company? And your house is the one place I can get some peace from all those whiny little wankers I've got to deal with day in and day out? 'Crowley, I'm afraid of change, new carpet scares me.' 'Crowley, crossroads deals in Montana are down five percent.' And my personal favorite, 'Crowley, I don't _like_ this new version of Hell.' You're not the king, you don't have to like it!"

Bobby didn't feel weepy anymore. He felt like he always did when Sam and Dean called him to bitch about each other: annoyed. Why did everyone, including demons now, come crying to him when they needed to vent about their problems? Did he have a bad moustache or a talk show or some other sign that would lead people to believe his name was Dr. Phil?

"Sorry you had a rough day. Wanna let me down now?" Bobby asked.

Crowley snapped his fingers and gravity stopped ignoring Bobby. The hunter slid down the wall and, before he could brace himself for the fall, ended up sprawled out on the floor.

"As you so astutely observed, I did have a rough day. And now I need to unwind. So you can either watch this movie with me, or I can send a possessed goat herder to blow up a Nigerian oilfield and send the price of petrol up twenty cents by Tuesday. Your choice."

"Put your damn movie on and let's get this over with. It better be something good," Bobby groused, picking himself up off the floor.

Crowley didn't have time for such trifles as remote controls, and with another snap of his talented fingers, he had the TV and DVD player ready to roll. Bobby, true to his earlier word, refused to sit anywhere near Crowley. He took a seat on the floor and crossed his arms to show how much he was enjoying himself.

"Popcorn," Crowley said while the FBI warnings against piracy filled the screen.

"Get it yourself. I ain't your maid," Bobby replied.

"You'd look cute in the outfit, though," Crowley said.

Bobby, his face red, stormed off into the kitchen. He tried to get the image out of his mind. It clung with the tenacity of an imbedded tick.

The bag of popcorn went around and around and Bobby watched it inflate. Once the microwave beeped, Bobby removed the popcorn. For once the microwave hadn't nuked the popcorn into bitter charcoal. Bobby poured the popcorn into the largest bowl he owned and then got an idea.

"And don't put any salt on it," Crowley called.

Bobby froze with the salt shaker poised over the bowl. How in the hell… Right, it was Crowley's job to make Bobby miserable. And he was good at it.

Bobby set the bowl down on the coffee table and then tried to return to his corner to sulk. Before he managed more than two footsteps, however, he found himself paralyzed by Crowley's psychic hold.

"I can't eat all this by myself," Crowley said.

"Afraid it'll go straight to your hips, your majesty?" Bobby asked.

"I do have to watch my athletic figure."

"Cause God knows I won't ever want to touch you again if you get any fatter."

"You never touch me now. You won't even spend a quiet evening alone with me."

"Just kill me now!"

"You'd rather be in Hell than watch a simple movie with me!"

"I can't even watch it! You froze me when I was lookin' at the wall!"

"Let me just fix that, then."

Bobby found himself still immobilized but instead of facing the wall, he was sitting on the couch. Crowley was, Bobby could see in his peripheral vision, mere inches away. And then he wasn't. Then he was pressed directly against Bobby like a horny teenage boyfriend.

"Happy now?" Crowley asked.

Bobby opened his mouth to tell Crowley exactly how _happy_ he was when, on the TV screen, a hand reached up out of the floor and grabbed a screaming child.

"What exactly are we watching here?" Bobby asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

"A movie near and dear to your soul's future." Crowley reached for the bowl of popcorn and, after taking a handful, placed the bowl in Bobby's lap. "It's called _Drag Me to Hell_."

Bobby closed his eyes, tried to block out the sounds of damnation, and wondered which Disney classic would be the sweetest revenge next week.

* * *

The End.


End file.
